And They Never Knew
by Pixelfun20
Summary: In the months before his suicide, Alfred F Jones left a trail of secrets throughout the world in a series of shocking revelations. Now his daughter, California, the micronation of Molossia, and government agent Walter O'Brien must race against time to solve the mystery Alfred has left behind, stabilize the United States, and discover the secret double life Alfred actually lived.
1. Chapter 1

**This is just a little plot bunny that's been growing in my head for the past year or so, ever since I published the story **_**Divided He Falls**_**. This story, **_**And They Never Knew**_**, is a sort-of sequel to it (It's not canon to this story, but reading it would give you a better idea as to what inspired this one), and I'm fairly excited to share my ideas with the world. I'm honestly not sure how long this will be, or even if I will finish it, but I figured that I might as well start publishing it so I'll be motivated in my writing and y'all can read it.**

**I usually don't write OC stories, but in this case I thought it necessary.I hope you like the characters I've made for this. Plus, Molossia and Lithuania need more love, haha. And hopefully Prussia's presence make this awesome.**

**Anyways, thank you for reading **_**And They Never Knew.**_ **Apologies in advance for any typos.**

**Warnings:** **Major Character Death, Suicide, References to Depression, References to Child Abuse, and Molossia Being A Jerk**

* * *

**Chapter 1:**

Walter Kennedy O'Brien, Secretary of the United States Department of Domestic and International Liaisons, had seen a lot in his life. Not only that, but he expected to see a lot more before he decided that it would be time for him to retire. After all, his entire career had been dedicated to protecting (but mostly getting out of trouble) the personification of his country, that being one Alfred F. Jones.

His story of discovering the existence of personifications had been rather unique, yet not. In his early years, sure, he'd been gunning to be a homicide investigator, detective, or another similar position. Young and ambitious, he'd wanted to work his way up all the way to the position as secretary and serve his country in the best way he knew how.

Of course, things hadn't really turned out that way.

When he'd gone to George Washington University, a naive freshman right out of high school, he'd ended up having an English class with a blond-haired kid, who'd back then been around his age. They'd been partnered on a research project together, and that was when Walter had learned the man's name.

Alfred F. Jones was… odd. Even now, almost fifteen years later, that was the only way Walter could think to describe him. When he'd finally figured out that Jones wasn't a normal human, it hadn't even been as much of a shock as it should have been. He'd confronted Jones about it before class, to which the young man had simply laughed it off and told him to pay attention to their professor. That night the FBI cornered him walking back to his dorm and carted him off, spewing something about "national security" and the like.

If he was completely honest, Walter had been expecting to "disappear" and never be heard from again. He certainly didn't expect Jones to saunter into his holding cell and offer him a job.

The DDIL, as it was abbreviated, was known to outsiders as a dead-end job, and hired employees in similar manners to the way Walter had been. What the rest of the world didn't know was that their secretary sat in the Presidential Cabinet and was just as influential as the Secretary of State or Defense. Once deemed trustworthy, Walter was "convinced" to drop out of college, informed of the existence of nations, and hired by the department.

Any reservations he had about the arrangement had almost no time to fester, however, for any department whose job was to manage a personification was a difficult and busy one. Not even taking into account Alfred himself, there were economics to study, security to fill, planning for World Meetings, worldwide travel, and foreign politics with the other nations to take care of, sometimes all in the same day. The reach of the DDIL went far into every other department, and Walter soon found himself rising rapidly through the ranks. After getting roped into helping Alfred save Maria, the personification of Mexico, when she was kidnapped by terrorists (now that was a _long_ story) and the 2016 presidential election, he found himself as Secretary at 34, the youngest in the Cabinet by over a decade.

It had been a busy life, but also one of friendship and hard work, one that let a person knew that they were really doing something to help the world. And after it all, Alfred, though a bit obnoxious, happy-go-lucky, and stupid, had become a good friend.

So when Walter found his charge lying at the base of a building, paramedics surrounding him and desperately trying to revive him when it was startling clear that he was dead, it came like a punch to the gut.

It had been a day like any other. Well, not really. The Fourth of July and the week-long World Summit had happened to coincide, and any member of the White House could tell you that was a recipe for disaster. Walter had been running back and forth, from one task to the next, with the rest of his department, anxious to make sure the first World Meeting of his career was a success. He'd hardly even seen Alfred, save for in passing, for the past two weeks. When he'd gotten a call from the nation's phone, he certainly hadn't been expecting the speaker to be a terrified janitor muttering that the owner of the phone had just jumped off a ten-story building. Walter had come as soon as possible.

But he was still too late.

Now, the July sun beat heavily on the back of his neck as he pushed his way through a crowd of morbidly curious civilians. He watched the paramedics announce the time of death. He numbly directed his department as they came onto the scene, securing the area, putting Alfred on a stretcher, and waiting for him to inevitably wake up.

They wait a week. He never wakes up.

The evening after they decide to declare Alfred F. Jones as permanently dead, Walter cries for a long while.

* * *

Jason Baugh, or the Micronation of Molossia, as he was more commonly known, was known to have had a complicated relationship with the United States of America.

When he had been born, back in 'ye olden days' of 1962, it had been America who had found him and raised him. His childhood had been rather normal, if secluded from public life and devoid of his father figure (if one could even refer to Alfred as that) more often than not. By the time he had reached adulthood in the 90's, their relationship had frayed quite a bit, though not to the point of anger. In his youth, Molossia hadn't understood why Alfred wouldn't come by very often, though by adulthood he had figured out that the man simply hadn't known how to go about raising a child.

It was disappointing, if he was honest, but Jason had long since gotten over it. After all, Alfred was only 19 biologically, and still a child himself when held to many of the other nations' standards. Of course he didn't know what to do with a kid. If he was completely honest, Jason would've just run off instead of taking the opportunity to raise a child. So even as their relationship cooled, Jason was sure to remain cordial to Alfred.

By the turn of the millenia, Jason had taken to trying to avoid Alfred. Though he'd never admit it, through the years, Alfred had started to grow a bit… intimidating. The man was a child prodigy, and was everything Jason wasn't: social, likeable, smart, and most importantly, _powerful_. How was he ever supposed to measure up to it, much less make his own life in the shadow of the world's greatest superpower?

When Sealand had gone around making that little micronation group of his, Molossia had reluctantly joined, if only for the social experience. He'd hardly ever interacted with other people his age, much less other nations, and the change was a welcome one, if really, _really_ annoying at times. But he seemed to have found his place in the world, and for that, he was happy.

And then that place was ripped out from under his feet and left him reeling in an eternal freefall.

It had started during a run-of-the mill World Summit. Jason hadn't been in attendance, of course, but he'd been in town the help the DDIL (of whose jurisdiction he also fell into) get ready for Alfred's birthday party, of which, as usual, the entire world was invited to attend. With Wy and Sealand arriving on the second, Ladonia and Kugelmugel on the third, and finally Seborga the morning of the fourth, the group of friends were all ready to party the night away.

Then Alfred never showed up.

At first they'd assumed he was only running late or had bumped into Canada and France, who had forgotten some of their things at the meeting place and were running late as well. When the aforementioned nations arrived without having seen head or tail of the man, the jovial atmosphere soon began to fade into one of worry. Like everyone else who tried, Jason attempted to call Alfred but was only met with voicemail. When no more news came and with no host to officially start the party, the attendees began to trickle away as fireworks erupted into the nighttime sky.

Two hours without America, and England had started talking about going to look for him. Two and a half and the DDIL called Molossia, apologising for the delay and telling him to inform the others that Alfred had been called in for an emergency meeting and had to leave for the next few days.

The World Summit proceeded for the rest of the week, curiously absent of the world's superpower. Molossia spent it standing in for the United States, taking meticulous notes, trying to remain in the background even as everyone else subtly watched him, and unable to answer anyone's questions. The DDIL and Secretary O'Brien were frighteningly silent, and the few agents Jason could get ahold of were just as clueless as he was.

On the twelfth, three days after the meetings had ended and the nations had returned to their respective countries, Secretary O'Brien sat Jason down and told him that the personification of Molossia would now be taking over duties as personification of the United States of America.

Alfred F. Jones was dead, and he wasn't coming back.

* * *

Rebecca Jones' life had been, quite honestly, rather unremarkable. Fulfilling, but unremarkable.

She was born on October 19, 1822, somewhere in the area of San Francisco. Her father, Alfred F. Jones, had found her as a baby, and had raised her as his own. She had an older brother, Thomas, and later a younger brother, Joseph, both adopted nations themselves.

Alfred had been an amazing father, and Rebecca couldn't have wished for a better childhood. They had to move every few months, being nations and all, but her Pa had always held her when she felt lonely, and wiped her tears away when Thomas was a bit too rough with her. First, they'd lived in and around San Francisco. Then it was Texas, then Baja California, Ohio, and in 1832 they'd moved to Missouri, where they'd found Joseph. Thomas and her had always been close, often wrestling and running amok in the wild. They shared the same love for the wild, adventure and unknown.

She and Joseph… not so much. Joseph as a person was fine, but he had always been a sickly, if hardy, child, and rarely left the house. He was a daddy's boy, being desperately attached to their Pa, and always had his nose stuck in one book or another. He hated large crowds, easily bruised, and was frail and small. Rebecca and Thomas had looked down on the youngest of their family, thinking him silly.

Things continued in this fashion until Rebecca was biologically 10 and physically 8, in the spring of 1834. Thomas, for lack of a better term, grew up.

They'd been in Minnesota at the time. Soon after they'd arrived, her brother had become dreadfully sick, at one point sustaining a terrible wound to the leg without explanation, terrifying their father. But by the end of the year it had passed, and as they took a wagon out to Indiana, he underwent a growth spurt that aged him from 13 to 17 almost overnight.

The change hadn't been very welcome. Rebecca found that she and Thomas couldn't play much anymore, as her older brother was much too strong and unfamiliar with his body to be of much fun. Alfred in particular had been particularly perturbed, often staying up late writing letters to unknown recipients, muttering about independence and how Mexico needed to keep her territory. What territory he was talking about, Rebecca hadn't the faintest idea, but she had a feeling that Thomas knew more than he was letting on.

After their brief stint in Indiana, Alfred moved them east to Vermont, then left for a time, leaving Thomas in charge. For nine months, they only received the occasional letter from him, and even Thomas eventually admitted to having had no idea where their father was. 1836 passed quietly with only another bought of sickness in Joseph that had, by that time, become routine.

Their father returned in the spring, and brought with him little trinkets and gifts from D.C., Charleston, and Houston as an apology. Once spring came in full force, he announced with a grin that they were going to "try and get away from things" (Rebecca had little idea what those "things" were, but knew better at that point than to ask). The next month they were on a ship sailing for London.

The first part of the trip had been tense, for lack of a better term. As soon as they had arrived Alfred had dyed his hair brown, slicked it back, and kept them well away from the metropolitan area, government buildings, and officials. He'd been on edge for the week they stayed in Great Britain, mumbling to himself about "Tories" and "getting caught." Only once were they on the ship set for Stettin, Prussia, did he relax.

It turned out that Alfred had a friend in Prussia, with whom they were staying. Or, rather, his friend _was_ Prussia. Gilbert Beilschmidt was a loud, vibrant man, the first non-familial personification Rebecca met, with a younger brother of his own, a six-year-old boy named Ludwig. They were welcomed warmly, if very quietly, in Berlin, where they stayed for the next three years, the longest the family had ever stayed in one place.

Thomas and Gilbert got along great, and soon were very good friends. Gilbert had taken to teaching the eldest Jones child the ways of strategy and war, and Thomas learned German with only a little difficulty (Rebecca never could get the hang of the language). Ludwig, just a year younger than Joseph, certainly wasn't any fun at all, and as he and Joseph grew close, Rebecca found herself increasingly feeling left out. The ways of the Prussian court was too stuffy and polite for her taste, and she was expected to behave like a young lady that she increasingly came to detest.

Eventually, however, their stay came to an end. In the fall of 1840 they left Berlin and sailed back home to New York, where Thomas, now physically 19, attended Washington College for a couple years. Then it was on to West Point so Thomas could get the military education he had been vying for ever he'd met Gilbert. After he graduated, he and Alfred had had a huge argument over whether or not he could enlist in the army, of which the patriarch of the Jones clan eventually won, and they moved out to Missouri, much to Thomas' horror and Joseph's delight.

It was probably for the best that Thomas didn't move on to join the military, for as 1845 shifted to 1846, his health abruptly began to fail him. Alfred soon began to worry, and they hurriedly packed up and began the walk to New York City so he could get the best doctors to help heal his son. They never made it.

On February 19, 1846, Thomas died in his sleep, just a day out from New York.

The death was a shock to Rebecca, now 14, who had still idolized her brother despite their age difference. Joseph, now nine, cried for weeks. Alfred was destroyed and didn't respond to his remaining children's pleas that they needed to be taken care of.

They buried Thomas in a graveyard near Edison, and stayed there for just over six months. Near the end of their stay, Gilbert arrived on a ship, having dropped everything, including his life in Prussia and his younger brother, to help them out over the next couple years.

They eventually set sail for California. In 1848, Alfred set them up in a small cabin he and Gilbert built with their own hands, far enough away from society to have a clear head and be alone, but not so far out that they weren't on the dangerous frontier. With the Gold Rush just beginning, Gilbert and Alfred made money selling food and supplies while Rebecca and Joseph tended to a small garden.

There was a space empty in their lives now, and her Uncle Gilbert could never fill Thomas' place, but their lives fell into a simple contentment.

Then, as 1850 approached, she, too, began to feel weak.

Rebecca knew she was dying. At first, she didn't say anything, and simply spent more time in bed. She put off telling her family in fear that Alfred would truly break with the loss of a second child. Eventually, though, when the truth did come forwards, Alfred only reacted with a sad resignation, and told her he loved her with all his heart.

As the year progressed, Rebecca found herself accepting her lot in life. A failed nation, a might-have-been, destined to fade in the memory of even her own citizens. And that was okay. She was the daughter of a wonderful man, who take care of her citizens on she was gone, and had two awesome brothers, even if Joseph was a bit of a wimp. Gilbert, too, was like the uncle she'd never had, and few people could boast to having met the personification of a European power.

And so, on September 9, 1850, Rebecca Felicity Jones, the Republic of California, died peacefully, with a smile on her face.

Then, on July 4, 2018, she woke up.


	2. Chapter 2

**I usually won't update this early, but I had a little less work than usual this week and had time to write. I'll try to update every 7-14 days, but I guarantee nothing. Life tends to throw plans into the shredder.**

**On another note, I'm absolutely flattered with the support I've received. I expected one or two reviews at the most, and certainly not five! Please continue to review. If you have any questions, criticisms, or predictions, I'll be more than glad to address them in the next chapter. **

**This chapter is mostly (more) set-up, but there will be action (and fight scenes!) later on. If any of you can figure out which movie inspired this one, you'll get a digital cookie :-).**

* * *

_I find myself thinking about the past more than usual lately. Just yesterday I was at the World Summit, and England want off on a five-minute lecture because I'd been thinking about the day I met you and didn't pay attention to his presentation. I kind of laughed it off, but I've been doing that more and more lately. I'm kind of glad O'Brien (my new DDIL sec, I think I've mentioned him before. If not, well, he's awesome. You can probably tell by his name why I like him so much) is too busy to pay much attention to me; he'd definitely know that something is off about me. As it is, it's getting really hard to keep Mattie off my back. I think he's starting to suspect._

**Chapter 2: **

Walter O'Brien let out a long sigh, sifting through the papers that piled onto his desk. His office had practically become his home over the last two weeks, as paperwork after paperwork meant for Alfred F. Jones went through him and Jason Baugh instead. Alfred's death had remained top secret since it had occurred, and currently he could count on his fingers who knew about it. That meant that expert forgeries had to be made of Alfred's signature after Jason or he went through a document and approved it, and considering that Jason had little to no idea what he was doing and Walter only slightly more so, there was a considerable backup occuring in the government.

Two weeks. For Walter, it felt like two very long years. Not only was he grieving the loss of a friend, but he also had to cover it up and work with the President to ensure that the other nations didn't find out what had happened. He'd already had to turn away both Canada and England's demands to see their brother, and he wasn't sure, emotionally, if he could do it again.

Then, yesterday, he'd been alerted to the existence of one Rebecca Felicity Jones.

Walter wasn't sure what to think of her. Busy as he was, he didn't think that he needed another issue to be piled on his back, but if what she was claiming was true…

It was almost too far-fetched to believe. Alfred, a father? The kid could hardly take care of himself some days. Walter had to remind him constantly to be more careful when in public and to get to each of his meetings on time. Not only that, but this girl claimed to have died in 1850. The police officers that had taken her in had reported how her behavior was very old-fashioned, but, again, it was too far-fetched to really believe.

According to the report he was currently re-reading, Rebecca Jones had been found wandering the streets of Walnut Creek, California, a week ago, in tears and on the verge of a mental breakdown. The fact that she kept on asking for an Alfred Jones had brought her to the attention of the DDIL. Several agents had already interviewed her and sent their recordings and reports of it to Walter, but since they didn't have the clearance to ask most of the personification-needed questions, the ultimate interview had fallen to Walter.

His phone rang. Walter put it on speaker.

"Secretary O'Brien, Miss Jones is ready to speak with you."

Walter nodded, even though he knew that his secretary couldn't see it, and began to clear away his papers, making sure that his desk was only halfway filled.

"Send her in."

"Yes, sir." She hung up. Walter took a deep, steadying breath, and waited for his appointment with Rebecca Jones.

Several minutes later, the door opened, and Walter looked up to take in the alleged daughter of Alfred F. Jones. She paused by the doorway, white as a sheet, but curtsied with a grace he wasn't expecting nonetheless, hovering by the doorway for the moment. Walter took that moment to take her in.

Miss Jones, as he'd read, couldn't have been older than sixteen, with curly brown hair that fell past her shoulders and milk chocolate brown eyes. She did indeed look like Alfred, he noted. She had the same face shape and nose, as well as the same muscular body type. Her skin, though, was darker (though she could still pass as white), hinting at a tinge of Mexican heritage, and from what he could see of her hands, they were calloused from hard work. She wore a white sundress with a navy blue trim, a white cardigan, and tan sandals that seemed to be a size too big for her.

"Secretary O'Brien?" Miss Jones asked softly, shifting nervously. "Um, your secretary told me to come here. She said you knew my pa."

"I think our first order of business is to determine whether Alfred _is_ your father," Walter replied coolly. "We have your DNA being tested against Alfred's right now, so in a couple hours we'll know for sure, but I want to get to know you first. Do you know who I am, Miss Jones?"

The alleged Miss Jones shifted, confusion flitting across her expression before she pushed it aside.

"Just that you are connected to my pa, and that you're pretty high up in the government."

Walter leaned back, watching her move. So far it seemed what she was saying was true—which was good, because his position was supposed to be top secret.

"Well, you can sit," he said, gesturing to one of the two chairs on the other side of his desk. Miss Jones took the one on the right, the one that Alfred had always chosen, and crossed her legs, back perfectly straight as she did so—now that was something Alfred had never done.

Walter stopped his train of thought with a jolt of mild surprise and a twinge of guilt. He was comparing this girl to Alfred. What in the world had possessed him to do that? He hadn't done it to Jason or Canada, and if anyone was to compare Alfred to someone that would be them.

He just… must be grieving, still. A girl just came in claiming to be Alfred's daughter, of course he'd want to compare him to her. Not only that, but he was tired, and wasn't working at full capacity.

Yeah. That was it.

Realizing that Miss Jones was watching him oddly and that he'd been silent a little longer than was polite, Walter spoke again.

"Just tell me who you are, Miss Jones," he said, starting a tape recorder and placing it where she could see it. "The basics. I'm also obligated to tell you that you are being recorded, and if anything you claim is false, it can and will be used against you in court."

Once again, that flash of confusion crossed Miss Jones' face before being tucked away again within moments.

"My name is Rebecca Felicity Jones. I was born on October 18, 1822. My father is Alfred F. Jones—he adopted me and my brothers. We moved around a lot during my life, and never really stayed in one place.," She recited, as if she had done so many times before. She may as well have, considering the earlier interviews. Then her body language shifted, and Walter looked steadily at her, knowing that she was going to divulge some information that she hadn't yet revealed. " We lived in Prussia for a while, if that helps. Their personification can vouch for my existence." Her eyes brightened slightly, regaining some confidence as she spoke. "Gilbert Beilschmidt, or the Kingdom of Prussia. He knows me; he and my Pa were friends."

Walter let out a long breath. Well, that practically confirmed things, as well as made them more complicated. Not only was Gilbert Beilschmidt's existence even more highly classified than the average nations', but the man wasn't even really a nation any longer. Why would some random kid off the street ask for a dissolved nation to prove their existence? Privately, he wondered why she hadn't mentioned the man earlier. He decided to voice that concern.

"Why didn't you bring up Mr. Beilschmidt's presence in your earlier interviews?"

Rebecca blinked, as if surprised he was asking that. "Because the existence of nations is a worldwide secret, sir. It'd be a breach of protocol. Even I know that."

Walter mentally slapped himself. Of course. What had possessed him to ask such an obvious question? He must still be letting his exhaustion get to him.

"Well, calling Mr. Beilschmidt over will be a bit of a problem," he finally replied, brushing aside the thought and blinking to clear his head. "You see, Prussia was dissolved over seventy years ago." Miss Jones stiffened and sucked in a breath, and Walter hurried to continue. "Mr. Beilschmidt has not yet died, but he is under strong surveillance by the German government since he is no longer a nation. Asking him to come to the US without a valid reason will raise suspicions, and currently we can't afford to let anyone know that your—Alfred is dead."

Miss Jones nodded shortly. Walter noticed that her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

"But…" she took a long, shaky breath. "Gilbert still lives?"

He felt himself humane enough to soften his reply. "Yes. Infinitely annoying, but alive." Miss Jones' lips twitched upwards slightly, and he took that as a signal to continue. "Either way, I think testing you for nationhood will suffice for me to confirm your claim. You were California before becoming the United States, correct?"

"Yes."

"Then you should know how to _see_ your citizens."

Miss Jones nodded slowly. "Pa usually made us ignore them, though. He said it wasn't our responsibility to worry about them yet."

Walter ignored the implications of that statement. A problem for another time. "Well, I need you to do that right now. Tell me what you _see_."

Miss Jones shifted nervously. "Just… there are a lot of them. Citizens, I mean. Last time I tried, it was really difficult to keep my conscience separate from them. Shake me awake if I don't wake up in a couple minutes."

Walter nodded, and Miss Jones closed her eyes, letting out a long breath and relaxing before slouching back into her seat, dead to the world.

This was one of the many oddities that constituted being a nation. From what Walter had learned from his decade and a half in the DDIL, a nation was only physically attached to the county they represented—that was, they could only be physically be affected by changes in the nation state they represented. Their psyche was very rarely affected by the views of their people, leaving them to be their own person. However, nations could detect the emotions of their citizens through what Alfred and the other nations called _sight_. It very rarely was specific, but through a mode of meditation, a nation could detect the general mood of their people, whether they be fearful, angry, or ecstatic. Usually bigger nations such as America reserved their _sight_ for only when absolutely necessary, as _seeing_ such a large group of people was often headache-inducing at the very least. Thankfully, all Miss Jones had to do was detect them, or else Walter would not have felt comfortable asking her to _see._

Several minutes passed, before Miss Jones's eyes fluttered open once again with a gasp. Blinking several times and shaking herself, she leaned forwards, obviously a bit worn down from the experience.

"Excuse me," she breathed, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "There's... a lot."

Walter nodded sympathetically. "I would have warned you, but I'm afraid I didn't know how you'd react. Alfred tended to get a headache whenever he had to _see_."

"They're so… divided," Miss Jones breathed, pale. "There's so many people…. There are dozens of different mindsets. Most people seemed to be in two different mindsets, but there were a lot of smaller ones, too. There's a lot of hatred and fear, but most of the population is more disappointed and resigned."

Walter nodded again. "That lines up almost perfectly with your father's last assessment. A lot more generalized, but that's to be expected." He noted how Miss Jones' hands lingered on her forehead before dropping to her lap, and how her breaths had become slightly more labored. "Advil?"

Miss Jones blinked at him, and Walter suddenly understood his mistake. "Right. Advil is a medicine that was invented while you were… gone. It helps with general pain."

"No, thank you. I think I'll be fine without it."

They lapsed into a short silence, before Walter stood up. Miss Jones followed his example as he moved towards her and held out a hand. After a moment's hesitation, she took it and they shook.

"Well, Miss Jones," he said with a wry smile. "Congratulations on becoming a world superpower. There's a lot you've missed in the past century and a half, and we have a lot to catch up on."

* * *

The door handle creaked as it turned ever so slowly. Jason closed his eyes, and with a long breath, swung it open and entered into the room he'd been avoiding for the past week.

As he looked around, he realized that Alfred Jones' bedroom was quite a contrast to his personality and honestly, a bit of a letdown. Jason had never been in his guardian's private quarters before, but whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this. The room had a military sensation to it, with a single twin bed situated opposite to the large screen doors that opened to the second-story balcony. There was an alarm clock on the nightstand, a dresser and cabinet by the balcony, and a desk with a computer on it in the last corner, but other than that the room was almost frighteningly bare.

Nevertheless, as he walked inside, Jason couldn't help but feel rather small. Here, less than three weeks ago, Alfred had packed his bags and went up to D.C. for a World Meeting, and later had committed suicide hardly halfway through it. What kind of memories were housed here? What did Alfred do when in this room, which was so bare and lacking in personality? Did he ever decorate the walls with American flags or paint the wall red, white, and blue, as England often complained that he did? Perhaps, in those last days before the World Summit, he had meticulously gone through his room, packing away everything that would suggest that a nation had lived there.

Jason Baugh was starting to realize that he had never really known Alfred at all. And that bothered him a lot more than he expected.

He bypassed the bed, walking over to the dresser, and opened it. Just suits, shirts, and pants, as a normal person would have. And while there were a couple cartoon shirts, most of the wardrobe constituted button-up dress shirts and nice jeans, ironed flat. Each was folded up neatly and each article type in its own row.

Jason found himself scowling, anger that he realized as a bit unreasonable rising up in his chest. What exactly, if anything, had Alfred been hiding, and why in the world did he think that it would be a good idea to hide it? What was going through his head that made him think that going off and killing himself, leaving the country to a very young and inexperienced micronation, was a good idea?

"Bastard," he muttered, slamming the drawer shut and walking back into the center of the room.

Then his shoulders slumped, and he let out a long breath, drawing his hands over his eyes as the inevitable sensation of grief crashed down on him once again.

For the last week, Jason had been down in the Alfred's primary home in the countryside of northern Virginia. Several days after being told of the nation's death, he'd travelled (run) down here, deciding (giving the excuse) that someone had to go through Alfred's belongings before the FBI went through them. But even as he carefully inspected the long neglected library on the first floor, tried and failed to take care of Americat (seriously. The name of the poor thing alone made Jason want to punch Alfred. In the face. As hard as he could), and went through the files O'Brien sent his way, he'd long avoided going through Alfred's room. There was just something essentially _private_ about the place, and after Alfred himself had kept all visitors out of his room for decades, it was more than easy to put off examining the bedroom for last.

But it seemed all the hype was for naught. There wasn't even a closet.

Eventually he composed himself and moved to the cabinet, opening it up. The hinges squeaked irritatingly loud, indicating that it hadn't been opened for a long while.

There were a couple books inside, a set of very old toy soldiers with chipped red paint, and a small black box on the top shelf. Not even half of the space was filled.

Jason went for the books first. The first held a set of very old photos and sketches.

On the first page, a lifelike pencil sketch of a woman met his eyes. She was obviously very beautiful, with very lightly shaded hair and clear eyes that indicated that they were either blue or green. She was in a very old-fashioned dress, perhaps from the late 1770's or early 1780's, and her lips lifted in a humorous way that indicated that she and the artist shared a funny sort of secret. Jason turned the page, only to find more sketches of the woman. Fetching water from a well, reading a book, reaching up towards a shelf, standing with an amiable older man who looked old enough to be her father. Over two dozen sketches of the woman met his eyes, before the subject turned to someone much younger.

A young girl looked up at him, holding the hand of an adult whose body wasn't in the drawing save for an arm and leg. She seemed to be two or three, in a flat flannel dress, and had straight, messy hair that fell around her chin. She seemed… slightly familiar. Jason frowned deeply at the sensation.

Well, he'd think about that later. He turned the page again, now engrossed in the sketchbook's contents.

There weren't a lot of sketches of the girl, only three, and they soon switched to Mexico, of all people. Jason had to take a moment to remember who she was; he had only ever met the southern personification in passing. There were just as many sketches of her as the other young woman, working in the field and the kitchen, grinning stupidly up at the artist, and so on.

Then there came a more peculiar sketch. This was of a woman, her head cut off by the top of the page, and thus identity unknown, holding a baby swaddled in blankets. After that…

Jason thought he was looking at a drawing of Alfred himself, as a young child. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the boy, who looked to be about four or five, had much darker hair, but the same ocean blue eyes. He was giving a gap-toothed grin of a child up through the page. Almost every part of the boy screamed "_Alfred_," and Jason was quick to turn the page.

The Alfred almost-clone popped up again, but now he was eight or nine, and holding the hand of a six year old girl who had curly dark hair and eyes. The boy was turned to the girl, saying something to her and pointing to some sight out of the sketch. The little girl—his sister, probably—was laughing.

Then there was a little boy with lightly shaded hair, and after that several sketches of all three together, increasing in age as he went along.

The next subject was… Prussia? He was dressed in a full military uniform, standing at attention. Jason was so used to seeing him causing trouble or laughing that it was disconcerting to see him so serious. After that sketch was a couple more of the former nation, mostly in old European dress and one with him standing next to Alfred's almost-clone, who appeared 16 in the sketch. The last differed greatly from the others in that it had him in rough, well-worn clothes, sitting on a wooden bench and carving what seemed to be a wooden eagle.

That was it for the former nation. The sketches after that were more... normal, if one could call it that. An early twentieth-century Canada and France showed up a couple times, 1950's England and Japan once, and, more disconcertingly, half a dozen of himself, ranging from his toddler-self to a sketch of him talking with O'Brien, which place the last one in the last two years.

Okay. If this wasn't creepy before, it certainly was now. Jason shut the book and put it back on the shelf, closing the cabinet and feeling like he had just intruded on something intensely personal.

Not only that, but if Alfred had actually drawn the sketches, and he most likely had… wow. If one simply went off the guy's handwriting, as Jason had, then one would assume that he didn't have an artistic bone in his body. But those drawings had almost looked like pictures.

Perhaps he didn't really know Alfred.

But in his heart, he had known that fact for a long while.

Shaking himself, Jason let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair as he forced the thoughts out of his mind. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts. He needed some fresh air; claustrophobia was starting to set in this room, despite how open spaced it was.

The warm, humid air of Morrisville, Virginia brushed gently against his face as Jason pulled open the door to the front porch. The sky above was dotted with clouds, and he could see the small pond in the backyard as he walked outside.

There was a chair, and Jason practically collapsed into it, rubbing his face with one hand and feeling very overwhelmed. This was stupid. The last week was stupid. Alfred dying was stupid. _Alfred_ was stupid. He couldn't do this. How was he supposed to represent America when he technically wasn't even American? He couldn't _see_, he didn't have any experience whatsoever, and top it all off he was so young that no one, not even the other micronations, took him very seriously.

The anger from before rose again. Jason leaned back in the chair and let it fester, curling in his stomach and spreading outwards into his abdomen and throat. It burned within him, a red-hot poker, before cooling slowly into a warm weight in his throat that made it difficult to breathe.

Jason wiped at his eyes, and leaned forwards. As he did so, a glint of light caught his eye. He blinked, and looked towards what had caused the glint.

There were several potted flowers dotting the porch, and though they were a variety of species, most of them were colored purple. Jason tilted back his head, gazing more intently at the plants until the glint caught the afternoon sunlight again. A tiny piece of metal, sticking up in the black soil of a New England Aster.

He stood up and bent over the flower pot, brushing aside dirt until a small black flash drive, with the back painted the same shade of purple as the flowers, came into sight, half-buried in the dirt.

Jason picked up the drive, frowning. What in the world was a flash drive doing in a flower pot? A small part of him whispered _secret_, but the warm lump in his throat pushed the thought aside, leaving a dull curiosity in its wake.

He put the flash drive in his pocket, and deciding that he'd leave the organization of the rest of the bedroom for later, went down to make lunch.

He forgot about the flash drive by the end of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Finally managed to find the time to finish this. Thank you all for your support; it's really motivated me to work better and harder with this story. If you have any thoughts or predictions, please let me know. This is my first major story in the mystery genre, and I would like to know what I'm doing wrong or right. Thank you!**

**Reviews:**

**Determined Dancer**—Thank you! I'm really glad you like Walter; I was a bit nervous about having humans OCs in a Hetalia fanfiction, but he seems to be fitting in nicely.

**Abyss101**—It's alright to not have an account :-). You reviewing is more than enough.

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_I know I'm not right in the head. Doctor Evergreen says I have atypical depression. I won't get into the specifics, because I don't want to make this letter a full ten pages long, but suffice it to say that I find it really hard to be happy. She says it may be so severe because of a trauma I suffered in the past._

**Chapter 3:**

"Everything's so… crowded."

Walter hummed, sparing Rebecca a glance before returning his gaze to the highway. The young nation's eyes were stuck to the cars passing them by, packed close but not so close that they'd be risking a traffic jam. It was early morning on the nineteenth of July, and they were riding out of DC early to try and get ahead of the morning traffic jams. Walter had made an executive decision that Rebecca would best be rehabilitated out of the city, in which she was starting to seem very overwhelmed. The place he'd decided on staying had been Alfred's own home, primarily because it was in the countryside, secure from and possible threats, and that Jason was already there, and it was high time the two meet.

"It's all very quick," Rebecca continued, shifting in her seat once again to look out the front window. Another glance revealed that she was looking rather pale, most likely feeling rather overwhelmed with the technology surrounding her.

"A rather negative side effect of the Industrial Revolution," he replied.

"What's that?"

_Uh… _He was at least expecting her to know what the Industrial Revolution was. "It's kind of a reference to when the world, specifically Canada, America, and Western Europe, shifted from a society based in agriculture to manufacturing. That was the time period you lived in. It ended around forty or fifty years ago; the exact date is a subject of debate. Nowadays we live in what's called the modern era."

Rebecca fell silent for a minute or so, digesting the information.

"Is that why nothing here is handmade?"

"Yeah, basically."

They lapsed into another somewhat awkward silence.

"Well." Walter's voice cut through the silence like a knife through butter, wanting to disperse the awkwardness and make her more comfortable. "You mentioned yesterday that you have two brothers. Who are they?"

Rebecca shifted. "Had," she corrected quietly. "My older brother, Thomas, died four years ago."

Walter did the math in his head. 1846. Why did that year sound important?

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"It's alright. Thomas was my older brother; he was born in 1820. He looked a whole lot like my Pa, except he had brown hair and slightly darker skin. He was real adventurous—we'd give my Pa heart attacks 'cause he would convince me to run off to town for the day." Her eyes took on a misty look, and it wasn't hard for Walter to figure that she was lost in memories that, to her, happened only a short time ago. "He loved the military and strategy games. Gilbert and him got to be very good friends when we stayed in Prussia because of that. When we returned to the states, Thomas went to West Point. He loved to carve wood, too; you could always find little horses, cattle, and eagles around the house. He was the life of our family." Her eyes misted.

"What about the other brother?" It was probably a good idea to keep the girl's mind off of painful memories.

Rebecca blinked at the change of subject, wiping at her eyes. "Oh. Joseph is my younger brother. I'm not really sure the exact year he was born; Pa found him when he was two, not a baby like Tom and I. He was sickly a lot and was really attached to Pa. They had these… strange games they would play. For years Joseph would find the most complex words he could and quiz our Pa, trying to find a word he didn't know." Her voice lifted with a tinge of regret. "I'll admit that I don't know him as well. Tom and I thought he was silly, reading as much as he did."

She spoke of him in the present tense. Walter took a risk.

"He's still alive?"

"He was when I… left," Rebecca shrugged, but her eyes were hopeful. "I don't see why he wouldn't still be." She tapped her fingers on the armrest. "See, we never really knew who Joseph represented. I was California, Thomas was Texas—" So that was why 1846 was ringing a bell. That was the year Texas had been annexed— "And Pa was America, but we never knew who Joseph was."

Walter was privately rather doubtful about the third brother's survival. It seemed that the three Jones children represented failed nations, and he suspected deep in his heart that Joseph had died some time after Rebecca had. Alfred had certainly never mentioned him, or even gave hints to any of his kids' existence. It was a mystery, certainly, and the only person who would have any real answers to it lay in Germany.

Something steeled inside of Walter. Gilbert Beilschmidt was still alive, even if Prussia wasn't. He'd find a way to get that former nation across the Atlantic and onto American soil, even if it killed him.

"I just don't understand why Pa worked with you," Rebecca announced abruptly. Walter blinked, surprised, as he took an exit off the highway, passing into a Virginian town whose name had slipped his mind. "He hated the government. Always was making sure we never crossed paths with them."

That was certainly new. Why would Alfred be so obsessed as to actively avoid the government for over thirty years? Walter had never even heard of something like that occurring during his entire time in the department, save for the one time he disappeared for a month after President Kennedy's assassination. "Well, he complained a lot, but at the end of the day he at least was fond of the DDIL. I'd like to think that we were good friends." Rebecca shifted in a way that conveyed disbelief. "You came to us, anyways."

"Where else was I supposed to go?" Now that was most definitely bitterness in that tone of hers.

"Touché."

"Pa never liked to be controlled. He thought the government would try to hurt us or make us join the Union." But they had; at least, California and Texas had. It seemed that that hope hadn't really worked out. "Pa wanted us to stay with Mexico, I think. He was always muttering about how she needed to keep a hold on her territory after Thomas got independence."

"Why did he take you and stay with Prussia, then? If Alfred distrusted his democratic government so much, why visit an absolute monarchy?"

"I don't know."

Walter's grip tightened on the wheel, but he said nothing more. They were just leaving the small town, and were now entering the open countryside.

A couple minutes passed in silence. Then the truck in front of Walter abruptly braked.

Walter had to slam on his foot on the pedal to avoid hitting the automobile. Rebecca drew in a sharp breath, no doubt caught off-guard by the sudden change of pace.

"What in the world…?" Walter muttered to himself, annoyed. In front of them, the truck had stalled to a complete stop. Behind them, a car honked its horn.

Then there was a loud "_clap!_" like thunder, a flash of light and heat, and within a second of it all, darkness.

* * *

The first thing she heard was the crackle of a fire.

For a moment, Rebecca thought she was back at her house in California, half-asleep by the fire. In her mind's eye, Joseph was curled in the wooden rocking chair Pa had made, reading a book. Uncle Gilbert was cooking—it wasn't going very well if the smell was anything to go by—and Pa would be sketching on a spare scrap of paper, as usual.

But that wasn't right. For one, her leg ached with a dull, throbbing pain that was most definitely not normal, and something (or multiple somethings) sharp was digging into her arms and face.

Dying. Waking up. 2018. O'Brien. Pa was dead. Joseph was missing. Uncle Gilbert was halfway across the world and no longer a nation.

The realization that she was not, in fact, in 1850, was a crushing one that stole the breath from her lungs. She felt like she had just learned that Pa was dead all over again, and she choked back a sob.

Wait.

Cars_._ Stopping. Explosion.

_Explosion_.

Rebecca's eyes snapped open.

Her eyes immediately began to burn, and she shut them after a couple moments of blurred sight. The crackling fire that had just moments before provided her comfort was now much more menacing, hissing right at her edge of her senses with a unnerving heat. She couldn't move her legs, and the stinging in her arms and face was rather concerning.

A low moan sounded through the car, and it took Rebecca a moment too long to realize that it had come from herself. Finally, she found the strength to move one of her arms to shade her eyes, and opened them. With it came a strong sense of vertigo, and she had to close them again and just sit there for another minute, breathing through her nose and trying not to throw up.

Finally, Rebecca managed to find some semblance of her wit, and re-opened her eyes, squinting until her vision focused.

There was a ball of white fabric pooled around her waist, originating from the dashboard of the car and covering her lap. The glass covering the front of the car was shattered, bits of glass covering both herself and the rest of the front seat. The automobile in front (she forgot what exactly it was called) was on fire, a black substance pooling on the road and quicking catching the flames.

Arms feeling as if they weighed a hundred pounds, Rebecca shifted, fumbling with the strap of leather (she also forgot its name) binding her body to the seat. Glass shards tumbled off of her body as she moved, making her arms sting and seep with cherry-red blood from dozens of small cuts. Finally, she found the clasp to the leather strap and pressed down. It immediately retracted, and hissing as it rubbed against her wounds, Rebecca tugged her hair out of her face and turned to O'Brien. She had not heard anything from the man since she'd woken up.

The secretary was still out cold, light brown hair darkened at the tips with blood that originated somewhere in his hairline and trickled down over his face. Rebecca felt her stomach drop. She was a nation—her wounds would heal in the next fifteen minutes at most—but O'Brien was not. This man was one of the only people to act like she wasn't crazy, and though she hardly knew him, she most definitely did not want him dead.

Questions swirled in her head, and part of her burned to know what happened and if they were still in danger, but she pushed it aside. It was something Rebecca had learned quickly since waking up in the future: don't ask questions. It was easier to accept that things just worked the way they did and move on. Plus, she avoided looking like an idiot or having her head hurt with terminology she didn't understand.

There was movement outside, and Rebecca turned to see several men in black armor and large, unfamiliar guns running to the scene and towards her. Frightened, the teen hurriedly wrenched the legs free from where they were trapped under the dashboard, glass raining down onto her bare legs under her knee-length skirt, kicking out the door with much more strength than she thought she had and getting out.

As she stumbled into the morning light, dizzy and unbalanced, Rebecca wondered why dresses were so short these days, and thought with more than a little annoyance that if she had been wearing her regular travelling/combat dress, she wouldn't have gotten cut.

The men came closer, pointing their rifles at her. Rebecca immediately crouched down, her hand going up to her waist, where she'd hidden a small knife (stolen from one of her "guards") in her waistband. Pa's lessons were ringing in her head—

"_Spread your feet and look them in the eye, Gold Dust. Always keep your balance and stay low. Deflect the blows, never block them."_

"Miss Jones!" One of the men stepped forwards, lowering his gun. The rest of the men fanned out among the wreckage. "Are you injured?"

Rebecca blinked, looking up at him.

"Who are you?"

"Peter Jensen." He held out a hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Rebecca decided that he wasn't a threat, and took it, allowing the man to guide her away from the car. "Part of the Nation Police Force, a branch of the United States Department of Domestic and International Liaisons. It's our job to protect you, ma'am. We need to get you to safety. Are you injured?"

"Nothing serious," Rebecca replied, head reeling. She took a couple hesitating steps, but kept one hand near her waist. "What about Secretary O'Brien?"

"We have some men retrieving him. Now, we have to get you to safety."

"I—yes."

Hefting his gun, Mr. Jensen hurriedly took off once again. Rebecca followed him, now fully taking in her surroundings. Several black vans and cars had driven off the side of the road, thus flanking the car she and O'Brien had been taking. More men in black armor and unfamiliar guns surrounded the area, some heading past them—most likely to retrieve O'Brien—while others pointed their guns at invisible targets, obviously on guard against some invisible target.

Rebecca let herself be led to one of the black cars. Mr. Jensen opened one of the doors, obviously with the intention for her to get in, but she hesitated, turning to see if the other policemen had retrieved O'Brien safely.

Behind her, Mr. Jensen let out a grunt, then collapsed.

Rebecca whipped around to see that he'd dropped his rifle and fallen face-up. His neck was a mass of red, blood flowing like a pump onto the black pavement of the road. Breath catching in her throat, Rebecca took a step back and looked up, trying to find the source of the shot.

No gun could be that silent nor precise.

Well, any 1840's gun.

One of the men shouted something, but Rebecca didn't hear it. She was too focused on the figure walking around the flames that had enveloped the car in front of the one O'Brien had been driving. Whoever they were, it certainly wasn't friendly; they were dressed entirely in black body armor that was extremely different from the Nation Police Force's more bulky wear. The figure held a rifle in both hands, and pointed it at her.

Rebecca didn't think. Pa had taught her not to think.

The young nation dropped like a sack of potatoes to the ground, rolling between the small space between the car and the rocky dirt below. The figure's bullet smacked into the ground just a couple inches left of her face as she scooted herself out the other side, stolen knife now in hand and dress torn.

Rebecca wished that she had something to pull her hair back with. As it was, she settled for shoving it out of her face as she crouched behind one of the car's wheels. Several more shots rang through the air, as well as screams (likely from the civilians nearby) and a second explosion that shook the ground below her. Catching her breath, Rebecca looked about to try and find some more covert cover. However, the forest boasted very little underbrush, and the other cars were too far away to make a run for.

The back of her neck tingled, and the nation whipped around to see the figure now on the roof of one of the neighboring cars, and pointing that rifle of theirs at her once again.

With no more immediate cover, Rebecca reached for the door handle with the intention of getting in the car, and when it didn't immediately open, yanked at it so hard it came straight off at the hinges. Ignoring the _many_ questions that abrupt show of strength brought up, she pulled the door in front of her as a makeshift shield just as three bullets in quick succession pelted into the leather sheathing the interior side. By some miracle (or perhaps not; maybe the material here was stronger than she thought), none pierced the other side.

The bullets stopped, and several moments later Rebecca risked a glance to see the figure rushing at her. They raised their rifle and she barely missed getting a bullet to the head by returning to her cover.

"Dammit," Rebecca muttered, mentally apologizing for using such foul language as she picked up the car door in one hand, adjusted her knife in the other, and rushed at the figure. Damn it all, she wasn't getting out of here without a fight, nation or no.

The door was bulky and tough to grip correctly, but Pa's lessons came in handy as Rebecca turned it around so the metal casing faced the figure as she ran, blocking several more shots and attempting to ram them. The attacker sidestepped the attack, but Rebecca shifted her weight, and in response her momentum changed so that the door curved around and smashed the attacker in the arm, forcing them to drop their gun. The attacker was only a couple inches or so taller than her, so Rebecca felt more than comfortable in her ability to go into hand-to-hand combat, especially if her Pa-like strength kept up the way it was.

The attacker had a knife of her own own moments after the gun was forced out of their hands, and didn't miss a beat as they lunged at Rebecca. In response, the nation dropped the car door and attacked with her own knife, the two of them engaging in a series of blows so quick that Rebecca hardly even registered them, energy clouding her mind and preventing her from acknowledging her movements, instead relying almost fully on instinct.

But even as they fought, Rebecca was clearly at a disadvantage, and both she and her opponent knew it. Her knife merely glanced of her attacker's body armor, and her own dress was very nearly in tatters and offered next to no protection. If it wasn't for her Pa's training and the sudden emergence of his super strength in her, it was more than likely that she would have been killed in moments.

"_Deflect, never block. Don't play nice. Bite 'em, scratch 'em, kick 'em in the rod. This is real life, Gold Dust. The world may want you to act like a lady, but when push comes to shove, you got to be as strong as any man."_

Pa's words echoed in her head as Rebecca fought, and it almost seemed like he was there, coaching her along and shouting at her to focus when the attacker got a hit in.

Rebecca wasn't sure how long the fight lasted, whether it was several minutes or several seconds long, but the crack of a gunshot jolted her out of the rhythm she had fallen into, drawing back slightly to check to see if she had been shot. The mental shadow of her Pa vanished back into the recesses of her mind.

But it wasn't her, but her attacker who faltered with an audible gasp, punctuated by a fumble in their steps as her free hand went to stem the sudden blood flow emerging from their abdomen. Rebecca acted without thinking, grabbing them by the chin and sweeping their feet out from under them. Her hands caught at the edge of the face mask, and she tore it off as she through the person to the ground.

The attacker just barely managed to gain enough of their bearings to roll away, stopping perhaps five or so feet away from her. The figure looked up, head now bare for the world to see.

And Rebecca found herself staring at the face of Alfred F. Jones.

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**Not everything is as it seems...**

**Tell me what you think of the fight scene. I'm kind of iffy on it.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Not very happy with the way this chapter flows, so I might rewrite it later on. For now, enjoy this rather later chapter!**

**To all the Guests who reviewed, the cliffhanger in the last chapter is explained here. I'm glad y'all liked the fight scenes more than I did. And Abyss101, if you manage to read all 40+ **_Warriors_** books in a decent amount of time, I will write you something and give you my respect.**

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**Chapter 4:**

Jason found the flash drive again the next day, when he was doing laundry. He'd been sorting through the whites and darks when his cell phone rung, and he paused, pulling up a white button-up shirt in one hand and answering the phone with the other. The caller I.D. revealed the identity to be Chairwoman Jordon Marie, head of the Nation Police Division in the DDIL and a second-in-command of sorts to O'Brien.

"What is it?" he asked, tossing the button up shirt into the whites pile and picking up a pair of jeans. "I'm busy."

"It's about Secretary O'Brien and America."

Jason paused in his work to scowl despite himself. He'd been informed about the new personification of America the previous night, and how this "Rebecca Jones" had been a kid of Alfred's before dying in 1850 and reviving on the 4th. Personally he found it to be a new level of tomfoolery and wished fervently that both she and O'Brien would stay far away in Washington where he would never have to meet her. Now that he wasn't the primary representative of the USA, he wanted no bigger of a part in what was going on up there than necessary.

But _no_. They had to come down to Alfred's Virginia house to "adjust." Hogwash. They just wanted more work and stress to get piled on Jason's back. Now they had to get some 16-year-old girl accustomed to 2018 culture, history, and politics, which would take years if even possible at all. Things were just getting worse and worse.

"Don't call her that," he finally replied. "She's _Rebecca_." —because there was no way he was referring to the girl as "Miss Jones," either— "I'm more of the representative of America than she is right now."

Jason could practically feel the woman's frown, but thankfully she didn't comment on it.

"They were attacked thirty minutes out from your house by an assassin. Secretary O'Brien is in need of medical care, and _America_" —never mind, that was definitely accented to annoy him— "is wounded. They'll be here momentarily."

Jason's hand tightened around the phone slightly, the fact that Marie had referred to Alfred's house as _his_ flitting past with hardly anything more than a passing thought. An attack on a nation? That hadn't happened since that whole Mexico fiasco back in 2016, and a the one before that had been a whole decade earlier. Whoever the attacker was, if they were targeting a nation that only half a dozen people even knew existed…. Suddenly, he didn't feel so safe in his public status as a micronation. "O'Brien? Is he alright?"

"The NatPD were escorting them, so they contained the situation before the assassin to get what they wanted. He just has a head wound, maybe a concussion. They're bringing him here for evaluation."

Well, that was a good idea. If there was any place that could survive a disaster, whether it be a terrorist attack or nuclear war, Alfred's Virginia House was it. Jason let out a sigh, forcing his heart to slow.

"Alright then. I'll expect them shortly."

"We'll get the full debriefing then. Have a good morning, Molossia."

_We?_ Ugh. like he was ever going to have a good morning again, especially if Marie was coming down. Jason turned off his phone, shoving it rather violently into his pocket. He and Marie had never really gotten along, not like him and O'Brien, and he had to wonder just what she had done to have been appointed as the head of the NatPD. The woman always seemed to expect him to act like he was as old as _China _(not that said nation acted anywhere near his actual age), and just as often was ready to deal out scathing rebukes, which seemed to be a good portion of the time they'd spent together in the fifteen days since Alfred had died.

Not only that, but this attack was worrying. There wasn't much he could do about it, and O'Brien was alright, but he couldn't help but feel nervous about the whole thing. Whoever the assassin was, they certainly didn't sound like they'd been trying to stay hidden.

Jason huffed to himself, checking the pockets of his jeans absentmindedly as he thought. A moment later, his hands caught a large bump in the right pocket, and he frowned, pulling out a black flash drive with a the back painted purple. When did he get this?

Oh, right. It'd been dropped in the flower pot yesterday, and he'd picked it up on a whim. No doubt it was one of the numerous flash drives Alfred had kept to store military documents. He'd pass it onto the DDIL when they came by, and they would sort through the information. No big deal.

But Jason couldn't help but look at this little flash drive, and wonder just what it had been doing in a flower pot.

Whatever. Laundry could wait until tonight, anyways. He tossed the jeans in the colored pile and left the laundry room, taking the stairs down to the main floor. The living room was at their base, and Jason picked up his laptop from where he'd left it on the table and plopped down on the sofa, disturbing Americat as he dozed on the couch. The Maine Coon cat blinked his eyes open, and after shooting Jason a look that conveyed a serious annoyance, jumped to the ground and trotted out of the room.

Good riddance. That dumb cat was annoying anyways. Jason booted up his laptop and plugged in the flash drive, opening up the files as he did so. As he pulled up the file tab, he frowned suddenly.

That was odd. There was only one file, a video at that, dated September 18, 2008. Unless it was some heavily classified video, that ruled out his theory of it holding government documents. And it was from 2008. That was almost ten years ago. If Jason's curiosity wasn't piqued before, it certainly was now. If it was recorded so long ago, it would be at the back of some filing cabinet, not in a flower pot of all things.

Hesitantly, he clicked play.

_The screen booted up to reveal Alfred sitting on the same bed Jason had seen in his bedroom upstairs. His glasses were nowhere to be seen, and his whole figure was slumped over, conveying a sense of tiredness with it. He wore a dirty, long-sleeved black shirt, and sported a black eye and split lip._

Jason frowned, but his heart thudded painfully in his chest as he looked down at Alfred again. He had not seen him for the last three months, the last time being them both attending the Dance Parade in New York, back in May. He had hated it. Alfred had, or at least had seemed to, have the time of his life. After his death, Jason had turned down the opportunity to see the body, and once he had gotten here the pictures of him hung on the walls had been the first to go. Seeing him living, breathing, stirred up an unidentifiable emotion in him.

And where in the world had he gotten hurt? The 2008 recession had only just begun, and Alfred's immune system had been the one to take a hit from it, not his physical appearance.

"_Hey," Alfred began after a couple moments of silence. His lips lifted, but he didn't smile. "So, uh… Doctor Evergreen says that making a video diary will help, and I figured, 'eh, why not?'" _

_He shifted, adjusting the camera, which seemed to be positioned between his knees. _

Who was Doctor Evergreen? Help with what?

"_As for what happened today; not much. Wrote a couple letters, filled out some paperwork for the Prez. There's a World Meeting coming up in October over the recession, so that'll be fun." He let out a sigh, fiddling with his hands. "Man, I just remembered I gotta get Jason outta D.C. in a couple days. Might send him to Santa Fe, get him and O'Brien out of here for a while until everything cools down."_

Suddenly Jason felt very uncomfortable. He remembered that trip. The old director of the DDIL, Patton Allaway, had sprung it up on him and O'Brien with hardly any warning, citing that Jason needed some vacation time away from the capital and his own country, and that O'Brien was to provide company (i.e. supervision). It had lasted a month, and while it was nice, Jason had felt more like he was being exiled than sent on vacation. It didn't help that O'Brien had been an insignificant recruit whom he hadn't even met yet. Jason had no idea that Alfred had been the one to initiate it.

Meanwhile, the video was still playing.

"_Don't want him getting caught up in Order stuff. He the only_—" _suddenly, his words choked off. "Anyways, I think Santa Fe is a good option. It's a clean city and out of the way, and Necahual says she'll be able to slip away for a bit and keep an eye on them. If things don't go well enough…" he shrugged, and sat up, now completely serious._

Jason shivered, now enraptured with the video. He had not seen a look like that on Alfred's face since 9/11. And who was Necahual?

"_If things don't go right or if I'm no longer fit to fight, then, Jason, you'll be watching this right now, and probably having a lot of questions about this diary of mine."_

He froze.

"_They'll be after you, Jason, if my plan fails. You'll be representing the United States of America on your own, and I hate leaving you without a goodbye, but…" he trailed off. "It's not your fault. I don't think you believe that you are at fault, but if you do, me dying, going missing, or whatever happened that put this video in your hands is _not _your fault. I died because my plan failed, or because my depression finally got the best of me. Nothing about that has anything to do with you._

"_But not everything is as it seems, Jason. Remember that. You can trust O'Brien_—_I vetted him myself_—_Necahual, and Gilbert, but besides that, it's best to believe that everyone else wants you dead. I've planted this video somewhere only you can find it. Destroy it after it finishes, and get out of here. Go to Trinidad, California. If everything goes according to plan, Necahual will be there to help you. If I couldn't get to her in time, then you'll have to go out on your own and figure things out. Gilbert should be able to help you, and try to get O'Brien on your side, too._

"_Don't trust the government. Leave as soon as you can. I love you, Jason, and I know you can do this. Go to Trinidad and find the next tape." Alfred chuckled sourly to himself. "Well, this has gotten off track. This was mostly supposed to be a video diary. Good luck."_

_He reached out to the camera, and the video ended._

* * *

Rebecca leaned back, hissing quietly as one of the DDIL medics dabbed a damp cloth over another one of the deep cuts that had been inflicted on her arm. Already, her midsection was wrapped in white bandages to stem the bleeding of a particularly harsh wound to her side, and the medics had soon shifted to the numerous cuts on her side. To make matters worse, most of them had started to heal around the bits of glass still in her skin like slivers, prompting the medics to yank them out painfully.

"So your attacker was Alfred Jones?" Jordon Marie asked, pressing a flurry of buttons on the weird metal… thing, the name of which she didn't know. The Chairwoman and leader of the NatPD looked at her with dark brown eyes, pitch-black hair pulled into a tight bun at the base of her head.

Rebecca shook her head quickly, still feeling shaken. "No, no. I just thought it was him for a second; she looked so similar…"

"She?" Another flurry of pressed buttons.

"Yeah. You could tell she had long hair tucked into a bun, but it was tucked pretty tight under her mask and I only noticed after I got it off. But she had—" another hiss as the medic started bandaging her arm. "His face. Same eyes, skin tone, hair color and texture, but sharper cheekbones and no cowlick."

"And what happened after you saw her face?"

"The rest of the NatPD opened fire on her. I'm not really sure what she did, but she threw something over at them, and it caused an explosion. When everyone was distracted she ran off to the forest. I let her go and went to help the men. We got O'Brien and some of the policemen drove us the rest of the way here. Then I met you."

Miss Marie nodded just as the door to the infirmary opened. Rebecca turned to see a young man, perhaps a year or so older than her, step inside. He had spiky brown hair and an odd pair of glasses with darkened lenses were perched on his nose. He wore a white button-up shirt and slacks, and a scowl adorned his face on his eyes landed on her.

Miss Marie stood. "Mr. Baugh," she nodded at the man curtly. The man said nothing to the woman, instead looking like he would like nothing more than to punch her in the nose. Miss Marie gestured to Rebecca, who straightened instinctively. "This is Rebecca Jones, the new personification America. Miss Jones, this is Jason Baugh, the micronation of Molossia and acting representative of America. He'll be your mentor and help teach you the basics of world politics."

"Excuse me?" Mr. Baugh exclaimed in surprise, whipping back to face Miss Marie. "I was told O'Brien would be taking care of the girl!"

Rebecca flinched instinctively. She definitely didn't want to think about O'Brien. No one had given the specifics of his condition, and head wounds very often had lasting effects on the victim.

The second emotion to rise was anger. Mr. Baugh didn't know her; why was he so against helping her out? Was it because she was a woman? Rebecca had dealt with her fair share of men and woman alike who thought she couldn't be a strong as the opposite sex in her lifetime. There were a good dozen lecherous men in Vermont who all boasted a broken nose from the time she and her brothers had lived there. Well, in 1836 Vermont. The point was that she felt that as long as she had enough time to adjust, she could become a good personification of America.

"O'Brien will be incapacitated for the next several days in order to recover," Miss Marie replied patiently, drawing Rebecca's attention back to her. "And either way, we need to nation to help instruct her on how to behave with other personifications in meetings and social events."

Jason's voice rose. "And you think I have the time to plan the funeral, execute his will, manage the United States _and_ teach this girl everything that's happened in the last century and a half? I wasn't even _alive_ for a good half of it!"

"You'll have help."

"Can't you just get Matthew down here? Canada is the least likely nation to betray us, and I know he'd be more than happy to know that his younger brother is, you know, _dead_!"

Rebecca froze. Brother? Her Pa had a _brother_?

"No one outside of the DDIL and Presidential Cabinet can know about this, Mr. Baugh." If Miss Marie hadn't been angry before, she certainly was now. She set down her metal thing on the ground and rose to her full height, perhaps four or five inches short of Jason's six foot. "I suggest you act more professional over your position and respectful of your superiors."

Mr. Baugh scoffed as the medic finished with Rebecca's bandages with a final roll of white material to her arm. Nodding to her and then Miss Marie, he hurried out of the room, most likely sensing as well as she did that this argument was just going to escalate from here. Silently, Rebecca wished she could follow him. If Mr. Baugh was the best the DDIL could offer in terms of help, she was better off figuring things on her own.

"Professional? _Professional?!_" Mr. Baugh's voice turned slightly hysterical. "I'm 56 years old! Physically 17! I've had hardly any training, I still grieving the loss of the man who was the closest thing I had to a father, O'Brien is currently in medical care and unable to work, and I have to pretend that everything is fine and dandy with the rest of my actual friends! Excuse me if I'm not acting _professional_ enough for you! At this point I could care less!"

Miss Marie's gaze was icy. She turned calmly to Rebecca.

"Would you mind giving a couple moments?" She asked in a clear dismissal. Rebecca nodded, hoping she didn't look too eager. She was never one to listen in on fights, and she certainly didn't want to stay with Mr. Baugh any longer than was absolutely necessary. Hurriedly, she stood, suddenly very aware that she was still in her torn dress from the fight, and hurried out the door the medic had left through, trying to ignore Mr. Baugh's borderline hateful expressful on her.

Closing the door behind her, Rebecca let out a long breath, doing her best to ignore the looks the lower-level DDIL agents were giving her and act like she knew what she was doing. She reddened slightly as she fingered her dress, knowing full well that her skin was open for the world to see.

Well, that was an order of business. Rebecca turned down the hallway, aiming for the stairs that lead out of the mansion (though if she was honest, she still wasn't sure if it was a palace…) basement.

Time to find something halfway decent to wear.

* * *

**Up Next:** **Rebecca goes clothes hunting and meets Tony, while O'Brien has to deal with Jason venting his many, _many_ frustrations at him.**


End file.
